


An Invincible Summer

by withthekeyisking



Series: An Invincible Summer [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: (that's not really spoken of but it's important to me that you know), Gen, Good Slade Wilson, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No editing we die like mne, Parent Slade Wilson, Past Injury, Romani Dick Grayson, Young Dick Grayson, ish, what kind of parent he is is up for debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: What Slade didn't except upon opening his front door: a nine-year-old with a handful of crumpled bills, wanting to hire him to avenge the murder of his parents.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Series: An Invincible Summer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767082
Comments: 82
Kudos: 825





	An Invincible Summer

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this tweet](https://twitter.com/diseasedb/status/1265899702383374337?s=21) and then couldn't get it out of my head, so now enjoy this fic!

Slade groans into his pillow, trying to ignore the knocking on his door.

According to his bedside clock, it's half an hour before five—in the _morning,_ to be specific—which means he should be getting at least another hour of sleep before he needs to get up and get on the road. Instead, the never-ending knocking is pulling at his senses, refusing to be ignored.

There are bursts where it falls silent, whoever it is giving it a rest, before starting back up again. It's going to start irritating his neighbors soon, if he doesn't deal with it. But maybe that means one of _them_ would get rid of his guest instead, which is a more pleasant idea then getting out of bed at the moment.

He's tired. His job was a long one, and he had to deal with that freak in a bat costume, which is apparently going to be a regular thing in Gotham, which is certainly tiresome. He doesn't want to have to handle whoever is so insistent at his door.

_Knock, knock, knock, knock._

"Goddammit," Slade mutters, and throws the blanket off of himself, getting to his feet. He grabs the handgun under his pillow and pads out of the bedroom and across the tiny living area of his current safehouse.

He's stayed in far worse places than this hole-in-the-wall apartment, but he's certainly stayed in far better, too. Not that it matters much; this was only for one night, and he's burning this safehouse anyway since some of the neighbors seem extremely nosey. He doesn't need excessive attention when he's trying to lie low.

Reaching the door, Slade rests the end of the gun against it and then pulls the door open, prepared to shoot if whoever's so determined to get his attention isn't a friendly. Enemies are very unlikely to just keep knocking instead of forcing their way inside, but it's always better to be cautious than stupid.

But the person waiting for him is just about the last thing Slade would've expected, except for maybe Adeline. It's a young boy, couldn't possibly be into double digits, with a mop of black hair and blue eyes that are a stark contrast against his darker skin. He's wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, all of which look like they've seen numerous previous owners, and are just a few days away from falling apart completely.

The boy's hand freezes in the air, eyes widening as he looks up at Slade, neck craning. He's so _small,_ barely four feet tall if Slade had to guess, and for a moment he's reminded so strongly of Joey, despite how different their features are.

Slade sets the gun down, out of sight. He isn't going to need it; this boy is absolutely no threat. Even if someone sent the kid, he still wouldn't stand a single chance of landing a hit.

"Can I help you?" he asks gruffly.

The boy swallows noticeably, and then seems to steel himself, squaring his shoulders. "Are you Deathstroke?"

Slade's eyebrows go up.

"Yes," he says slowly. He flicks his eye up and down the hall just in case, but there's no one waiting in the wings. "And you are?"

"My name is Dick Grayson," the boy says, and pulls his hand out of his jeans pocket. Clenched in his fingers are a few crumpled up dollar bills. His other hand slides into the other pocket, and returns with a grouping of random change. "I'd like to hire you."

If possible, Slade's eyebrows get even higher.

"Kid—" he begins, but the boy interrupts.

"I'm serious!" he says firmly, straightening a little further.

And the thing is, Slade knows he's serious. He's got that look in his eye that civilians who get into contact with him always have, the look that says they're on a mission and know what they want, and they need his help to do it.

But this is a _child._ Not only does he not even slightly have the money to meet Slade's prices, but he's a fucking kid. Around Joey's age, maybe. Definitely not older than Grant. Slade can't imagine what would lead someone this young to seek out an extremely dangerous mercenary, but he _can_ see Adeline's disapproving look in his head at the idea of taking this kid's money.

He can't just shut the door in the boy's face, though. Unfortunately. And the longer they stand in the hallway, the more likely they are to get noticed and overheard. So he steps to the side with a sigh, offering the boy entry, and the boy's eyes light up in response.

He scurries very quickly inside, as if afraid that Slade would change his mind between one moment and the next.

"Look," Slade begins as the boy glances around. He seems more tense than he did out in the hallway, so at least there's _some_ brains in that head of his; only someone stupid would enter Deathstroke the Terminator's apartment and not be worried at all about what that means.

"Look," he says again, and the boy turns his wide blue eyes back to him, "I don't know why you think this is a good idea—"

"I need your help!" the boy insists, and extends his arms towards Slade a little, as if his point is made stronger by the money tightly gripped in his hands.

Slade gives the money a brief, unimpressed look, before putting his gaze back on the boy's face.

"I can see you think that," Slade says slowly, choosing his words carefully. Christ, he's never been good at this part. The comforting-a-kid part. Whenever Joey or Grant were upset he left that to Adeline to handle, or not very helpfully suggested they just man up or get over it. He wasn't built to be a father, and his line of work thankfully keeps him far away from children.

This is...far from ideal.

"How did you even find me?" Slade asks, changing tracks. It is something he genuinely would like the answer to; some random street kid shouldn't be able to walk up to an active safehouse of his. It's absolutely ridiculous that he managed it.

The boy bites his lips, arms dropping down to his sides. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, restless, and then says, "I was listening in on some guys talking, and one of 'em said their boss hired Deathstroke to take care of a problem, and they weren't looking forward to having to be in the room for that meeting 'cause you're scary."

Slade's amused despite himself. "They said that?"

"No," the boy tells him, "but I could hear it in his voice when he said he didn't want to go. So I followed him, 'cause I have a problem that needs to be taken care of and he said Deathstroke takes care of problems, and so I spied on _that_ meeting too, so I heard you guys talking about—" He hesitates, eyes darting from side to side. "Well, about...how you killed someone for him."

That's inconvenient, that his client's security didn't pick up on the fact that they had a stowaway. Speaking of— "That meeting was on the top floor of a heavily guarded building with top of the line security. How could you have _possibly_ gotten there to listen in in the first place?"

"I went down from the roof," the boy says simply, like it's obvious.

Once again, Slade finds his eyebrows rising. "And how exactly did you get on the roof?"

"I climbed up to the roof on the building next door that didn't have all that stupid security and then walked along the powerlines to get over to the right roof."

Slade stare at him. _What the fuck?_

"Who the hell are you?" he demands. Last he checked, regular children can't just do things like that.

The boy blinks. "I told you, I'm Dick Grayson."

Slade feels a tick of irritation. "You did," he agrees, trying to keep his tone calm. Snapping at Joey and Grant only ever made them upset, and thus less agreeable. It always made talking to them infinitely more difficult.

So even if Slade's patience is wearing thin (which is always was back then, and certainly is starting to now) he takes a deep breath and continues with, "But your name doesn't explain to me why a seven-year-old was able to climb a building and then tightrope walk to the next one."

"I'm nine!" the boy says, affronted in the way only children ever get about age.

Slade's tempted to question that age—he's _so small—_ but there are more important things at hand. "Alright, you're nine. That still doesn't answer my question."

The boy looks considering for a moment, like he's hesitant to share something, which Slade is pretty sure they've passed the point for.

"I was part of a circus," the boy says eventually, voice soft. "I—my parents and I—we were...trapeze artists. Acrobats. So I'm—well, I'm really great at all that stuff."

His answer explains more to Slade than he's sure the boy intended; he understands where the skills came from now, yes, but he also understands why the boy's here. His tone makes it clear that his parents are dead. Whoever's responsible, the kid is here to get Slade's help in making them pay.

Slade walks towards his small bedroom, and sees the boy's face scrunch up in confusion as he goes. Slade heads over to his duffle bag and exchanges his sweatpants for jeans, his tank top for a shirt that's more outside-appropriate.

The kid hasn't moved from his spot by the time Slade returns, and looks to Slade in confusion.

"Come on," Slade says gruffly, picking up his keys from where they sit on the kitchenette's counter.

"Where are we going?" the boy asks, eyes wide.

"The police station," Slade says. "You need a detective, not a mercenary."

"No!" the boy exclaims, and Slade turns to him in surprise. There's an impressive level of conviction in his eyes, in the clench of his jaw, in the way he stares at Slade completely unafraid. "No, they don't believe me, they won't _help me._ My parents were _killed_ and they all said it was an accident, they said I'm just _grieving,_ but I know what I saw! I know what happened!"

Slade looks at him critically. Slade's no stranger to grieving people, to the denial those individuals can exhibit when it comes to their loss. Often, in accidental deaths, people attempt to ascribe some kind of meaning to the deaths, as if that'll help them deal with it. If there's a _reason_ their loved one died, then they could understand it a lot more than a random occurrence.

There's a reason denial is one of the stages of grief; almost everyone goes through it.

But the boy doesn't look even slightly unsure, nor desperate. He's not searching for an answer, he says he _knows_ what truly happened. And the police have failed him. So, he tracked down someone who would have the ability to get something done.

Slade can admit to being impressed by that. Most children would just have to learn to live with it, maybe get some therapy, maybe let the emotions fester inside and destroy their life growing up. But not this boy. No, his grief has spurred him into action, and he will not be denied.

Slade knows, in that moment, that the boy isn't going to stop. Even if Slade turns him away, brings him to someone who will maybe be able to help him let this go, Dick Grayson isn't going to stop. And he'll reach a point where he decides to go after the individual responsible by himself, and then he'll probably get himself killed.

Which would be a shame. Past the fact that there would be a dead child, he means. Slade would regret hearing about this kid's death, because this kid has quite a lot of potential, and an inherent strength that usually takes people quite a long time to form.

In his head, he can see Adeline sneering at him over the fact that he's considering the fact that a child just two years older than Joey has _potential._ She'd be tempted to shoot his other eye out, if she knew he was actually thinking about this. She'd want to get the boy help, and not the murderous kind. She'd _certainly_ want to keep him far away from Slade.

After Joey...

Slade pushes images of his bleeding son from his mind, and focuses back on the boy actually in front of him.

"Alright, kid, I'll bite. What happened to your parents?"

"There was this man," the boy rushes to say, "at the circus. He wanted Pop Haly to pay him _protection money—"_ he practically spits the words, far more venom than Slade's seen a child hold before, "—and when Pop refused, the man said he'd be sorry. And then I saw the man by the riggings before the show, messing with the wires. I didn't have time to say anything, and I didn't..." Something guilty flashes in his eyes. "I didn't think it was an emergency. But the ropes snapped while we were in the air, and we weren't using a net..."

 _So they fell,_ Slade finishes in his mind when the boy trails off.

"Do you know the man's name?"

"Zucco," the boy murmurs, a fire in his eyes despite how calm his voice is now. "His name is Zucco."

Slade purses his lips. Not a common name, which would make it very easy for Slade to find him. Not that he's agreeing to this. Because he'd be stupid as shit to take on a literal child as a client. Especially when said potential client only has, what, ten bucks to his name? Twenty, maybe?

 _He's not going to stop,_ the thought pops back into his head. _Without assistance, he's going to just keep going until he either gets Zucco or, more likely, gets himself killed._

"You should let this go," Slade says bluntly. "Get a therapist to handle your anger, move on with your life like any sane person would. I'm not a good Samaritan; I don't do pro-bono work."

The boy narrows his eyes. "If you don't help me, I'll just go after him myself."

Slade's expression doesn't change, but he sighs internally; yeah, he'd already figured that part out for himself.

"You'll get yourself killed," Slade tries.

The boy's chin juts out. "Then I'll find a way to make sure that doesn't happen."

Slade looks at him incredulously. "And what way would that be?"

The boy shrugs a shoulder. "Dunno. But it's _Gotham;_ I'm sure I'll find something."

Slade tilts his head back, letting out a slow breath. The kid's going to get himself taken advantage of, is what he's going to find in Gotham. He's going to talk to the wrong person, and some criminal is going to offer him help with honey-slick words, and then Dick Grayson will end up trafficked or abused or simply dead in a ditch for being stupid enough to trust the wrong person.

Goddammit.

"I need your help," the boy says, and Slade looks back at him. His voice is shaking a little, but there's nothing but resolve in his eyes. "If you—if you don't want to...kill him for me, then could you—maybe you could—you could be my something. You could...show me how to do it myself."

Slade blinks once. "No."

The boy's face scrunches up in a frown. "Why not? You said you won't kill Zucco, but you clearly don't want to just let me go, so—"

"Kid," Slade interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't want this. Hell, _I_ don't want this. This is a bad idea. I'm not going to train you to kill somebody. Besides, you _really_ wouldn't like my training."

"I'm a hard worker," the boy says quickly. "At the circus I practiced all the time, in all kinds of things! I'm a fast learner, and I can listen to instruction, and I won't back down, I work hard, okay, I promise—"

Slade believes him. That's the fucking problem. The boy has the background to make him an ideal candidate for this general kind of work, and he's got the conviction to completely dedicate himself to training and the job. Slade has no doubt that he could make something great out of the boy.

But it's been just under a year since a man broke into his home and slit his son's throat for the sole crime of being his son. Adeline shot his eye out for bringing that danger to them, for putting their children in the line of fire. Is he really considering purposefully doing that again? And not only bringing a child into his life, but actually putting the child on the front lines?

Dick Grayson has quite a lot of potential. He could be great at this.

And he's not going to stop anyway.

"I will give you some basic training," Slade grits out, and the boy's face lights up. "That's _it._ And if you can't hack it, then we're done. And _you're_ done with this ridiculous crusade of yours. You allow yourself to be placed in some nice little foster home, and you move on with your life. Do you understand me?"

The boy stares at him, eyes slightly narrowed, and Slade gets the distinct impression that he's being scrutinized.

"Alright," the boy agrees with a sharp nod. He shoves the money back into his pockets and then offers Slade his hand to shake, a wide smile breaking out across his face. "You have a deal."

With great reluctance and exasperation, Slade accepts the hand. He shakes it firmly, trying to ignore how small and fragile the boy feels in his grip.

"Great," Slade says wryly. "Just what I wanted from my day; a _toddler_ as a tagalong."

The boy's face twists in indignation. "I'm not a toddler! I'm nine years old!"

"Potato, potahto," Slade mutters, and turns to head back into his bedroom to pack up his stuff; he's not getting any more sleep today, and, if he remembers anything about having young children, he's unlikely to be getting lots of sleep in the days to come.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is gonna be a series! I hope you guys enjoyed this first fic, and if you're interested in seeing what happens next, just subscribe to [An Invincible Summer](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767082) 😊


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